Ralph Compton the Law and the Lawless Page 3

  Hooves clomped, and the Attica Kid came alongside Cestus’s bay. “I’ll be damn glad when we reach the cave.”

  Cestus looked at him, and grinned. “Gettin’ grumpy in your young age, are you?”

  “I’m tired of the dirty looks Mad Dog keeps givin’ me,” the Kid said. “He keeps it up, you’ll need to find somebody to take his place.”

  “He’s jealous, is all,” Cestus said. “He thinks I treat you special. Likes to call you my favorite.”

  “That’s no excuse. I won’t be looked down on. Not by him or anybody.”

  “Do you ever regret leavin’ Texas?”

  The Kid glanced over. “Where did that come from?”

  “I was thinkin’ of the old days,” Cestus said. “About how I got my start. A man can learn a lot from his past.”

  “Learn all you want. I never look back. What’s done is done. So no, I don’t have any regrets. Except maybe that you brought Mad Dog into the outfit.”

  Cestus laughed. “I’d be obliged if you rein in that temper of yours and don’t gun him. He has his uses.”

  “Since when is gripin’ a use?”

  Cestus laughed louder. “That’s another thing I like about you, Kid. Your sense of humor is almost as good as mine.”

  “I wasn’t bein’ funny. He’s a pain in the ass.”

  More hooves drummed, and now it was grizzled Ira Toomis who came up on Cestus’s other side. “No sign of anyone after us yet.”

  “They will be,” Cestus said.

  “What makes you so sure?” Toomis asked.

  “Marshal Boyd Cooper. He takes his law-doggin’ serious,” Cestus said. “He won’t like us robbin’ his town.”

  Toomis snorted. “Just another nobody with a badge.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Ira. He’s killed his man.”

  “Hell, who hasn’t?” Toomis replied. “Bein’ a man-killer is as common as fleas these days.”

  “Why are you arguin’ with me?” Cestus asked.

  “I just don’t see him as anyone to sweat about.”

  “You should. I heard of him over to Kansas. He’s not famous like Wyatt Earp, or like Wild Bill was. He’s no gun hand, but he does what he has to to get the job done.”

  “I’m more worried about Harvey Dale,” Toomis said.

  “How so?”

  “I got to talkin’ to him one day a while back when I put my horse up at the stable. He used to scout for the army. Did a lot of trackin’. Told me he tangled with the Sioux and some other tribes. And now he’s a part-time deputy.”

  Cestus drew rein and the others followed suit. Shifting in the saddle, he glared at Toomis. “You’re just now tellin’ me this?”

  “Huh?”

  “I knew Dale does a little deputy work, but I didn’t know the rest,” Cestus said. “I sure as hell didn’t know he used to be a scout. How did it never occur to you to tell me?”

  Toomis sheepishly shrugged. “I’m sorry, Cestus. It was over a year ago that I was there. After we’d robbed the Cloverleaf Bank and you had us split up to throw the Cloverleaf posse off our scent.”

  “Damn,” Cestus said. “A tracker.”

  “He’s an old codger, like me,” Toomis said. “Likely as not, he’s not near as good as he was in his younger days.”

  “Don’t treat me like I’m dumb,” Cestus said. “A minute ago you were worried about him, and now I am too. This changes things.” He brought his weary horse to a trot.

  Cestus didn’t put all the blame on Toomis. He should have had Varrow or McGivern nose around in Alpine when he first heard about the old man at the stable who helped out the marshal from time to time. It was an oversight, and mistakes like that could prove fatal.

  They arrived at the north end of the lake. Their horses were right where they’d picketed them. Ranks of spruce bordered the shore, and higher up, aspens shimmered in the sunlight. Out on the water, ducks swam and geese honked.

  A fish leaped with a loud splash.

  Normally Cestus liked to appreciate Nature in all her glory, but now he was all business as he had his men switch to their new horses. He transferred the burlap sacks to a sorrel and went over to Ben Larner, who was adjusting the cinch on a grulla.

  Larner was the second oldest, after Toomis. In his younger days he had hunted buffalo and still had the Sharps he’d used, converted from percussion to cartridge by a St. Louis gunsmith. He was cradling the buffalo gun as he tugged on the cinch. He had gray eyes and skin like old leather, and was the only one of them who wore buckskins. He wore a bandoleer across his chest and a bowie knife on his left hip.

  “Ben, we have a problem,” Cestus said.

  Larner looked up. “Oh?”

  “Could be a tracker is on our heels.”

  “The real article?” Larner said in his gravelly way.

  “Old army scout.”

  “Then he’s for real all right and not one of those blowhards who say they can track but couldn’t find their own ass in the dark without a lantern.”

  Cestus chuckled.

  “What is it you want me to do?”

  “I’d like to discourage the tracker and the rest of the posse,” Cestus said. Turning, he surveyed the blue expanse of Alpine Lake and the wide shorelines on either side. “You could wait in the spruce there, and when they come, shoot the scout’s horse and maybe one or two others besides.”

  “Why not shoot the tracker?”

  “You know why,” Cestus said. “I keep tellin’ all of you. We don’t kill unless we have to. There’s nothin’ that stirs folks up more than a killin’. They send out bigger posses and hardly ever give up, and we don’t want that.”

  “It’s hard not to kill when killin’ is so easy,” Larner said.

  “I know. But it’s not smart, and smart is what keeps us alive. So long as all we do is rob and give away money, people don’t get riled. We’re harmless. They like us, and laugh at the law behind their backs. We want that. We want them on our side, not scourin’ the countryside to string us up.”

  “The horses it will be,” Larner said.

  “I’ll leave one of the others to lend a hand and the rest of us will push on. Join us at the cave when you’re done.”

  “I don’t need no nursemaid.”

  “Just to keep you company,” Cestus said. “Toomis, maybe? The two of you get along.”

  “He’s always spittin’ tobacco juice. My pa used to do it. I couldn’t stand it then and I can’t stand it now.”

  “Cockeye, then. He doesn’t use chaw and hardly ever talks.”

  “That eye of his makes my skin crawl, the way it looks off one way when his other eye is lookin’ right at you.”

  “Well, ain’t you fussy?” Cestus said.

  “I’ll be fine by my lonesome. I’ll shoot a few horses and fan the breeze and be with you by sunset.”

  Cestus gave in. “All right.” He trusted Larner to get the job done. The old buffalo hunter was one of the most dependable of the bunch. “But don’t take chances, you hear? Use that Sharps of yours to its best advantage and drop their horses a ways off. Don’t let them get close.”

  “Yes, Ma,” Larner said.

  Laughing, Cestus turned and climbed on the sorrel. The others were already mounted and waiting. He led them into the spruce and up a steep slope to a ridge thick with firs. A switchback brought them to the aspen belt, and from there it was a short climb to a narrow pass and a sweeping vista of the surrounding mountains and valleys.

  To the west was the Divide, the backbone of the continent, the miles-high peaks capped by snow much of the year. Far to the south, smoke rose from the Tilden Smelting and Sampling Works, one of the three large mines that accounted for Alpine’s prosperity. To the east the mountains sloped away toward Alamosa.

  Once through the pass, Cestus
descended to the tree line and followed it north to an imposing series of cliffs. Midway along, a dark maw yawned. It wasn’t visible from above. Nor could it be seen from below, thanks to the heavy forest. Cestus had learned about it over a card game in Denver from an old trapper deep in his cups. Finding it had proven difficult but worth the effort.

  “Home, sweet home,” Bert Varrow joked as they drew rein at the cave entrance.

  “It keeps the rain off us,” Mad Dog said. “That’s all I care about. I don’t like bein’ wet.”

  Bert sniffed a few times and grinned. “We know.”

  Butch McGivern laughed. He had taken off his hat and was swatting dust from his sleeves and his britches. “I try not to breathe when Hanks is upwind of me. It about kills my nose.”

  “Go to hell,” Mad Dog said. “I don’t stink that bad.”

  “Says you,” Butch McGivern replied.

  “Enough,” Cestus said. Dismounting, he stretched and arched his back. It had been a long ride and he was a little stiff.

  “Are you tellin’ us when to talk now?” Mad Dog asked.

  “Don’t start,” Cestus said. “I’m still annoyed with you for how you acted at the bank.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You were mouthy,” Cestus said. “You complain too much, Mad Dog, and it gets on my nerves.”

  The Attica Kid had climbed down and was flexing the fingers of his gun hand. “Gets on my nerves too. And you don’t want to do that.”

  Mad Dog opened his mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it and didn’t.

  “That’s what I like about us,” Bert Varrow said. “We’re one big happy family.”

  “Like hell we are,” Mad Dog said. “We’re robbers and killers and we’ll all come to a bad end.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Cestus said.

  Chapter 4

  Marshal Boyd Cooper had to hand it to Harvey Dale. The old scout was a marvel.

  Dale had found where the outlaws left the road and cut north into heavy timber, and from then on had stuck to their trail like a hound dog to a raccoon’s scent. For his age he was remarkably spry, and stopped often to spring down and examine the ground. With his buckskin shirt and old cavalry hat and patched army pants, he might as well be leading a patrol deep into Indian country as guiding a posse after outlaws.

  In addition to Boyd, Mitch, and Dale, their posse consisted of two cowboys from the Circle T who happened to be in town, a blacksmith who did a lot of hunting, the owner of the stable where Dale worked, who was a superb rider, plus Sam Wilson, who had shown up as the posse was set to ride out and said he needed to talk to Boyd so he might as well tag along.

  Boyd didn’t know what that was about, but he did know he was pleased with his posse. Mitch had picked well. The two cowpokes, Sherm Bonner and Lefty, spent most of their lives in the saddle, and Sherm was reputed to be more than a fair hand with his six-shooter. The blacksmith, Vogel, had muscle enough for three men, and spent all his free time off in the woods after big game. Vogel’s favorite rifle was a Maynard .50 caliber. With it he could drop a bull elk at five hundred yards. The stable owner, Clell Parsons, had brought a Spencer, but by his own admission he’d hardly ever used it.

  Now, riding hard, they came to a shelf and started up the steep slopes on the other side.

  Boyd slowed to spare their animals. He was keeping an eye on Dale, who was well out in the lead, bent low from his saddle.

  “They were still movin’ fast,” he called back. “Too fast, if you ask me.”

  Sam Wilson happened to be riding beside Boyd and cleared his throat. “What does Dale mean by that?”

  “They keep goin’ like they are,” Boyd said, “they’ll ride their horses into the ground.”

  “Awful dumb of them,” Sam said.

  “That’s just it,” Boyd said. “One thing Cestus Calloway isn’t is dumb. I suspect he has horses waitin’ somewhere so they can switch and leave us eatin’ their dust.”

  “You don’t say,” Sam said, as if it were a stroke of brilliance and not mere common sense. “Well, you should know about these things. You’re the lawman. All I do is milk cows and raise chickens.”

  “There’s more to farmin’ than that,” Boyd said, wondering why his friend was acting sort of peculiar. Reining around an oak in their path, he said, “What did you want to talk about anyhow?”

  Sam brought his animal so close their stirrups almost touched. Lowering his voice, he said, “My sis.”

  “Cecelia?”

  “You know of any other sisters I have that I don’t?”

  Boyd chuckled.

  “I shouldn’t be doin’ this,” Sam said. “But after what she said when you left today, I reckon I should let you know so you can decide what you want to do.”

  Another tree forced them to rein apart.

  “Want to do about what?” Boyd asked when they rejoined.

  “What are we talkin’ about? My sister, you lunkhead.”

  “I’m not sure I savvy,” Boyd confessed.

  Sam sighed and rubbed his chin. “This is awkward. It’s none of my business, but we’ve been friends awhile now and, well, it’d be a shame for her to go off to Kansas City when I like havin’ her around.”

  Boyd had been half concentrating on Harvey Dale, but he switched all his attention to Sam. “Kansas City?”

  “That’s where we’re from. From outside it, actually. I wouldn’t go back in a million years. There’s nothin’ there for me. Our folks are dead. We have some kin left, but we hardly know them.”

  “Why would Cecelia want to go?”

  “She’s got nowhere else. Between you and me, I think she’s kind of lonely, bein’ a widow and all. Then you showed an interest and that perked her up, but you’ve been such a lunkhead about it she’s havin’ second thoughts.”

  “That’s twice you’ve called me that.”

  “If you don’t want to be called it, you shouldn’t be such a lunk. What does she have to do? Throw herself at you? She told me she’s made it as plain as plain can be that she’d like you to court her, but all you court is our fish.”

  “Well, hell,” Boyd said.

  “So today she came in and mentioned Kansas City again and I thought I should come into town and tell you to quit straddlin’ the fence. It’s root hog time, if you take my drift.”

  “You farmers and your hogs.”

  “Don’t change the subject,” Sam said. “Once this bank robbin’ business is over, you’d better put on your Sunday best and come callin’ with flowers in your hand.”

  “Why, Sam, you romantic devil, you.”

  “Damn it, Boyd. I don’t need a grumpy female on my hands. And if you don’t come courtin’, she’ll fall into a sulk that might last days or even weeks.”

  “I can’t imagine Cecelia ever sulkin’,” Boyd said. “She’s always struck me as havin’ a pleasant disposition.”

  “Seems to me you have a lot to learn about females. They have two faces. One they put on when they’re out and about, and the other they wear at home.”

  “By golly, you’re a philosopher too.”

  “I could just hit you,” Sam said. “I’m doin’ you a favor and you’re pokin’ fun. If you’d ever been married or had sisters, you’d know I’m right. You’ve only seen the sweet side of her. But she can be stormy, on occasion, and that’s when you have to watch out. The only thing worse than a female in a snit is comin’ down with smallpox, and I can do without either.”

  Boyd became serious. “Set your mind at rest. I was fixin’ to ask her out when Mitch showed up bellowin’ about the bank.”

  “Good,” Sam said, nodding. “Do you mind if I sort of suggest to her that I heard somewhere you are interested?”

  “Somewhere?” Boyd said. “Who told you if not me? The barber?”

&nb
sp; “It wouldn’t do for her to know I talked to you,” Sam said. “She’d be upset that I poked my nose in.”

  “She won’t hear it from me,” Boyd assured him.

  Up the slope, Harvey Dale was wisely skirting some talus.

  “To tell you the truth,” Sam continued, “you’ll be better for her than her first husband. He was too bossy and always wanted things done his way.”

  “I haven’t asked her out yet and you have us married?”

  “I’m just lookin’ ahead,” Sam said.

  “I’m grateful for the advice,” Boyd said. “And now that you’ve said your piece, you might as well turn around and head back to town. There’s no need for you to go any farther.”

  “I’m no quitter.”

  Boyd hesitated. It wasn’t that he minded Sam being there. But the others all had something to contribute, and Sam didn’t. Sam couldn’t track and wasn’t much of a rider and was an even worse shot. Boyd didn’t want to come right and say that, so he settled for “It’s your sister I’m thinkin’ of. You should let her know my intentions so she doesn’t fall into one of those sulks.”

  Sam gazed up the mountain at their tracker. “I’ve come this far. I reckon I’ll set it through.”

  Boyd shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

  When they reached the crest, Harvey Dale was waiting. The old scout had dismounted and was sweeping the country below and beyond with a spyglass.

  “I didn’t know you had one of those,” Boyd remarked, hooking a leg over his saddle horn. “We’ll rest for five minutes,” he announced to the others. It wasn’t much, but it was all they could spare. He’d like to be closer to their quarry before sundown.

  Without taking his eye from the telescope, Dale replied, “It’s from my scoutin’ days. Saved my hide more times than I can count.”

  Deputy Mitchell had brought his horse up and now he removed his hat and mopped at his brow. “Why am I sweatin’ so much? All we’re doin’ is ridin’.”

  “You’re soft, Deputy,” Dale said. “You’re not like me or those punchers. We can ride all day and all night and still keep goin’.”

  Sherm and Lefty had reined to one side and were swapping words and grins. They had overheard, and Sherm said, “We thank you for the compliment, old-timer.”